


Gave to Me

by coricomile



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Christmas Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-23
Packaged: 2018-09-08 03:31:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8828689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: "Fuck off," Zhenya mumbles. When he's finally freed his ankle, he kicks the sheet away and rolls out of bed. Sid really isn't kidding about the ten minutes. His revenge is subtle, never comes right away, but is always vicious. Once, he'd stuck a fish under Zhenya's mattress before they'd left on a roadtrip. The smell had lingered for months.





	1. December 12, 2016

**Author's Note:**

> And here is the first time I'm going to attempt a twelve day posting streak. Happy Christmas, folks. Have some cute hockey players being cute.

Zhenya loves homestands. Beyond the obviously true fact that Pittsburgh fans are the best fans, it also means he doesn't have to drag his ass out of bed early, rush to an airport, and sit around waiting for forever for the damn thing to take off. It makes practice more exciting, less of a chore than it is when he has to go to someone else's rink, with someone else's colors surrounding him and throwing him off. Plus, his bed is infinitely more comfortable than any hotel could offer. 

His bed is what gets him in trouble, really. It's just- he's so _warm_ , and the pillows are soft, and his alarm isn't really loud enough to stop him from falling back asleep. He only jerks awake when there's pounding on his bedroom door. He swears and barely avoids rolling off the side of the mattress, his legs so tangled up in the sheets that he has to take a long minute to unknot them. His phone alarm is still going off. 

"Geno, I swear to god," Sid shouts through the door. His head peeks through after a moment, his frustrated scowl already in place. Zhenya doesn't want to know how long he's been there, but he's sure Sid will tell him in great detail anyway on the way to the rink. "You've got ten minutes to get your shit together and get dressed." 

"Fuck off," Zhenya mumbles. When he's finally freed his ankle, he kicks the sheet away and rolls out of bed. Sid really isn't kidding about the ten minutes. His revenge is subtle, never comes right away, but is always vicious. Once, he'd stuck a fish under Zhenya's mattress before they'd left on a roadtrip. The smell had lingered for _months_. 

Zhenya pulls on sweats and a t-shirt before stumbling into the bathroom to brush his teeth. When he gets back into the bedroom, Sid's already got Zhenya's gear bag sitting out on the bed, his coat, hat and gloves laid next to it. The sharp whistle of the kettle floats upstairs as Zhenya pulls his shoes on. God, but he loves Sidney Crosby. 

Sid hands him a travel mug of tea- which won't be sweetened, because Sid refuses to quote-unquote _waste jam that way_ \- but it's warm in Zhenya's hands and has enough promise of caffeine in it to interest him. For a moment, Sid just looks at him, intense as he ever is. Zhenya lets him. He's gotten used to it over the years, and he likes the attention anyway. He can almost pinpoint the moment that Sid decides enough is enough, and turns himself to the door before Sid shoves him there. 

"You my taxi now?" Zhenya asks as he climbs into Sid's Tahoe. Outside is already freezing, the rain that hasn't stopped for a day and a half more frozen now than it isn't. Soon there will be snow and wicked wind chill over the bridges, and he'll have to actually pay attention when he's headed to the rink. 

"I called you, like, five times," Sid says as he backs out of the driveway, one arm resting on the seat behind Zhenya's head as he cranes to look out the back windshield. "Rusty wanted to go to breakfast. I figured you were still asleep when you didn't pick up."

"Like hotel without shitty bed," Zhenya says, sipping his tea. It's too hot and it stings a little in the cracks of his chapped lips. This time of year, it's all he can do to keep his mouth from bleeding, between the ice at the rink and the bitter cold outside and his increasingly bad habit of sucking at his lower lip during games when things get tense. "Wake up call, room service, shuttle. Crosby Motel. I give five stars."

"See if I wake you up next time," Sid says, eyes narrowed. "You can be fined and have to sit out on the game because you were too lazy to get up." Zhenya waves his hand and makes a dismissive noise, blowing air through his teeth. 

"Is Coyotes," he says. He watches the skyline slowly come into view as they cross onto the bridge. The view is just as beautiful now as it had been the day Zhenya had first seen it. "You live without me." 

"We'd probably be better," Sid agrees. "You're getting old. Maybe you should start asking Gonch about post-retirement jobs." Zhenya snorts and hunkers down in his jacket. Sid never turns the heater on unless the temperatures are in the negatives, which Zhenya will never understand. 

"You not so young anymore, too," Zhenya says. Sid looks the same as he always does, all strong jawline and smooth skin and pitch dark hair, but he's definitely getting little wrinkles around the creases of his eyes and corners of his mouth. They only serve to make him look better, in Zhenya's opinion. Sid grins and warmth blooms up through Zhenya's chest. He hates early wakeup call, but he loves days like this. 

He's just finished his tea when Sid pulls into the back lot and kills the engine. He sticks the mug in the cupholder, even though he knows it drives Sid crazy that he doesn't rinse it out inside, and leans over the divide between their seats to grab his lanyard. It's still weird that Consol isn't called Consol anymore, and the changes are only superficial, but Zhenya still frowns a little when he sees the new name on his pass. It pulls at his mouth and he hisses as he feels a crack in his lower lip split open.

"You pull your back, old man?" Sid asks. Zhenya scowls at him, reaching up to prod at his mouth. There's no blood, but it's sore. Sid frowns and reaches across Zhenya to open the glove box open, rooting around before he makes a soft, victorious little sound. "You need to remember to get chapstick. How do you keep forgetting?" 

"Don't remember until too late," Zhenya mumbles. Sid sighs but drops a yellow tube into Zhenya's hand. It's the bee stuff that makes Zhenya's lips tingle every time he uses it. Sid swears by it, which has been no small source of teasing from the team. Zhenya pops the cap and rubs it carefully over his lower lip. When he looks up, Sid's watching him closely. Zhenya rolls his eyes and Sid looks away. "All better. Thank you. Best captain. We go practice, or both get benched?"

"Yeah, come on."

Practice is good. _They're_ good. Zhenya's been pleased with their season so far, and while there is no such thing as an easy or sure game, he's confident that they'll smash Arizona into ground tonight. Sid's been on fire lately, and Zhenya's got his own point streak going, and Rusty's been perfect. Zhenya looks up at the banner hanging from the rafters and thinks about how this time last year they hadn't even been contenders. It reminds him to stay humble. The season is still young; things can always change. 

After he's showered and changed back into his sweats, he stops at his stall to shove his stuff back into his bag and laughs. Laying on top of the canvas are four neatly arranged boxes of the bee chapstick, plus the one Sid had given him in the car. He tucks them into the side pocket of his bag for safekeeping and whines at Sid until he's ready to leave.


	2. December 13, 2016

There isn't such a thing as a true _off day_. Even if there's no game, no practice, there's a dozen things Zhenya still has to do. Interviews, charity work, PR events and photo shoots. It's exhausting. Zhenya doesn't even try to keep track of everything on his own. He knows Sid writes everything out in a notebook because he's an endearing weirdo that can't just rely on his phone calendar like the rest of the world. Zhenya's schedule shows up on his phone, reminders pop up hours before he needs to be anywhere, and Zhenya does as he's told. 

Today's not so bad, though. The Paws calendar shoot is always Zhenya's favorite time of year. He gets to play with dogs of all sizes all day, gets to aim the spotlight on a charity that he can fully stand behind and support, and no one makes him do anything harder than hold a pose for twenty seconds. It's the best sort of day. 

Zhenya gets to the shelter early, a bag of dog treats in one jacket pocket and a pastry in the other. He's not the first to arrive, but there aren't too many of his teammates there yet, either. Olli's already in the makeup chair, eyeing a cute calico kitten that keeps trying to climb the wall of the playpen she's been sequestered in. She lets out a tiny mew and Zhenya thinks fondly of Dixie and how special she'd been. 

"Sorry you have to work so hard," Zhenya tells Anna the makeup girl as he takes the chair next to Olli's. "He ugly. Hard to fix." Anna grins even as Olli kicks Zhenya's shin. It hurts a little, but Zhenya's physically unable to pull back a chirp if the time is right. 

Zhenya suffers through getting his face smeared with concealer and patted down with powder, doing his best not to wrinkle his nose at the sharp chemical smell of it. He's not so big on the makeup part, but he closes his eyes and pushes up into the hands that run through his hair in an effort to make it photogenic. It's a process he's gone through enough times to make everything blur together. He has to take his joy in the little moments. 

When Anna dismisses him, Zhenya makes a hasty retreat to the back where the kennels are. He can hear the dogs barking and making happy noises at each other and he smiles to himself as he pushes the door open. If he could, he'd take them all home and love each and every one of them. Sasha has five dogs and it's maybe the only thing Zhenya has ever been jealous of him for. Jeffrey is big, but Zhenya's bed is bigger and the empty space feels wasted. Another dog would fill it nicely. 

He stops in front of a beautiful blue brindle pit bull. Its head is boxy and wide, its eyes the same color as molasses. The nameplate over his cage reads _Tompson_. Zhenya squats in front of him, reaching a hand up for him to sniff. Tompson eyes him for a moment before pressing his nose to the gate holding him in, the cold, wet tip of it brushing over Zhenya's knuckles soft enough to tickle. 

"You're a pretty boy," Zhenya says in soft Russian. Dogs, he's found, like Russian better than English. They're smart creatures. "Yes, such a good boy. We'll find you a nice home, where you'll get all the treats you could ever want." Zhenya pulls one from the bag in his pocket and turns his hand over, letting Tompson sniff that, too. He laughs when Tompson licks him, the treat there and then gone in a flash. Zhenya puts his fingers between the bars to scratch him behind one pointy ear. "Good boy."

"You always spoil them, " Sid says. Zhenya looks over his shoulder and grins. Sid's leaned against the doorway, eyes fond as a beagle tries valiantly to tackle him through the bars of his cage. Zhenya snorts when Sid leans down to pet one soft ear. 

"You not one to talk," he says. He pats Tompson's furry nose one more time before getting to his feet. He pulls the pastry out of his pocket and hands it over. It's a little squished, the croissant gone a bit misshapen, but Sid still lights up when he takes it. "You spoil, too." Zhenya means that he's spoiled Sid since before he even knew the English word for it, but Sid breaks off a tiny piece of croissant and feeds it to the beagle, smiling sheepishly. 

"Maybe," he agrees. 

Sid eats the rest of the pastry on his own, and they spend what little time they have before they have to go back outside cooing at the dogs and cats together. There's a fiesty three year old tom with black and white splotches that purrs as soon as they stop in front of him, his big blue eyes so innocent and sweet that Zhenya wants to take him home right that moment. Sid, who has always claimed to be a dog only person, also looks moments from breaking. 

"We could adopt," Zhenya says, giving the cat his fingers to rub against. His fur is soft and long, his small body vibrating with the strength of his purrs. "Good leader. I can tell. He be best cat." 

"We'd have to timeshare him," Sid says. His fingers squeeze in next to Zhenya's, the backs of their hands pressed together in the small space. The cat's tiny pink tongue darts out over Sid's fingertips and Sid breathes out a soft laugh. "You'd never let me see him."

"You just have to come live with me," Zhenya says. "Share fuzzy son in one house." Someone knocks on the kennel door and Sid's hand slides away. Zhenya sighs and gives the cat one last rub between its pretty eyes. 

It's freezing outside, and even the warm body of Tompson isn't enough to make up for wardrobe's decision to have Zhenya in a henley instead of a temperature appropriate parka. Tanger- who _is_ in a parka, that fucker- yells at Zhenya about Canada being better than Russia at everything, including dealing with the cold, which is just _wrong_. Zhenya hugs Tompson closer to his body and smiles for the camera. When he's done, he's going to shove Tanger's head into a snow drift. Anna will forgive him. 

Zhenya races inside as soon as his shoot is called, blowing into his hands in a poor attempt to get feeling back into his fingers. His knees are damp from kneeling on the half-frozen ground and his eyes keep watering, but he's happy. He hopes Tompson and the other animals go to good homes. He hopes they're loved and cared for in the way they deserve. 

Sid, who had gotten the first shoot because he's a terrible, pampered baby, is sitting in the lobby, laptop balanced over his thighs and eyebrows furrowed. Email time, Zhenya thinks fondly. Sid's the only person Zhenya knows that would rather take a hundred calls than answer a dozen emails. Zhenya flops into the chair next to him and presses his frozen hand to the bare strip of neck peeking from Sid's sweater. 

"Jesus," Sid hisses, jerking away. His laptop hovers dangerously at the edge of his knees for a moment, but he yanks it back up with a glare. "You're such a dick."

"You like," Zhenya says with all the confidence of someone who knows he's right. Sid sighs. 

"Too many pucks to the head," he says. He closes his laptop and shoves it into his bag, probably rougher than he should. He pulls off his toque and shoves it into Zhenya's face. It smells a little like sweat, a little like Sid's hair gel. "Your ears look like they're going to fall off." 

Zhenya has his own hat somewhere in the heap of his belongings, but those are all the way across the room and Sid's is already warm from body heat. Zhenya tugs it on and stuffs his hands under his armpits. He can feel how cold they are through his shirt. 

"You can keep it," Sid says. He leans back in his chair, his knee tapping against Zhenya's as he adjusts. "Looks better on you, anyway."

"I'm always look better," Zhenya says, tongue out and eyebrows raised. Sid rolls his eyes and shoves his hand into Zhenya's face, knocking his head back. 

Zhenya spends the rest of the time signing posters and insert pages for some of the calendars. He makes good on pushing Tanger face-first into the snow and then spends a half hour fleeing from red-faced Canadian rage. Sid won't agree to hide him because he has no real sense of honor or loyalty. Zhenya ends up with snow down his pants and a bruise on his thigh, but he's happy when he climbs into his car at the end of the day, Sid's toque keeping his ears warm even when the rest of him is chilled.


	3. December 14, 2016

It's officially too early to have this much snow. Zhenya yawns into his hand as he shuffles towards the kettle. The tile in the kitchen is heated, something he desperately loves, and the heat is on low, but just the sight of snow coating the branches of the trees in the back yard makes him shiver. He turns the kettle on and spends five minutes staring into the fridge, trying to come up with something interesting to eat. Technically, there's more than enough time to go out before morning skate, but Zhenya's not leaving until he absolutely has to. He ends up eating a small mountain of scrambled eggs, which is boring, but needs must. 

For a long while, he just watches the snow fall, sipping his tea and letting himself think about home. It had been strange not to stay in Russia the whole summer, his usual routine cut down by the playoffs and then cut further down by the decision to stay in Pittsburgh to train with Sid. He wouldn't give either of those things back, but it had been a long time since he'd seen the streets he'd grown up in like this, white and bustling with the upcoming holidays, peaceful in a way it usually wasn't. He'd left most of his homesickness behind years ago, accepts Pittsburgh as his current home, but he's Russian through and through. No place will ever be the same, not really. 

Zhenya finishes breakfast, cleans up after himself, and eventually makes his way outside. If he drives just a little over the speed limit, he'll get to PPG just in time. He pulls on Sid's hat, grabs his gear, and nearly goes face first into the porch steps when he trips over a huge bag that's been left beside the door. It would be his luck to break something before he even got to the car. His mother calls him accident prone. Zhenya knows it's because she loves him too much to call him unobservant. 

The thing that nearly killed him is a twenty pound bag of ice salt. Zhenya blinks down at it and tries to remember if he'd ordered any, or if he'd scheduled the lawn people to show up, but he's pretty sure both are solid no's. He shoves it into the front hall, locks the doors, and hauls ass to get to the rink. He'll figure it out later. 

Game day routines are easy to get lost in. Zhenya's isn't nearly as strenuous or intimidating as Sid's or even Flower's, but he's still got a method to psych himself up for the hour thirty that everyone's coming to see. Morning skate, lunch, nap, snack, going over his equipment with Dana and then again on his own. He's been playing hockey for almost his entire life, but something about the steadying process of taping his sticks, of pulling on his pads like the armor they are, still gets him excited like he's six years old again. 

The Bruins are playing well this season, and while they're never going to bring out the same fire from the Pens as the Flyers do, Zhenya still wants to crush them. He steps onto his ice, in his city, and bows his head during the anthem. He's cocky, he knows he's cocky, but the Penguins are the best and he's going to prove it again, just like he's done hundreds of times before. 

The game is rough. Marchand is a fucking pest, tangling up with Sid and Zhenya whenever they're on the ice, his mouth running for every second of it. He's small, but he's got good balance, and Zhenya grits his teeth against his mouthguard instead of shoving his fist into that rat nose. Plus, Olli's goal three minutes before first intermission is a way better revenge. Zhenya bares his teeth at Marchand and heads to the bench for a change. 

They stay strong through the second, picking up two more goals to Boston's one. Zhenya spends more time elbowing Marchand out of his way than getting good looks at the net, and he's pissed off enough that by the third it's all he can do not to pick the little fucker up and throw him over the glass. Sid watches him, taps Zhenya across the legs with his stick when they pass off spots, his eyes bright with laughter and warning both. 

In the end, Zhenya doesn't fight Marchand. He fights Chara. 

They're so close to the end of the game that Zhenya can feel it in his aching legs. The Penguins are holding on to the lead, but just barely. If the Bruins tie it up, Zhenya might actually puke. It's been a hard game and somehow Boston is mustering up more energy in the face of Pittsburgh's exhaustion. Zhenya needs to change, is the only one left of his line still on the ice, but white jerseys are swarming Flower and he hasn't had the chance to sprint back to the bench. 

He slaps his stick down for the puck, but Shearsy tosses it over to Sid instead. Sid catches it on his stick, head up and eyes darting across the ice for open lanes, and before he can swing Chara is barreling into him, smashing him head first into the glass. Sid's knees go out and Zhenya- exhausted and angry and feeling a little stupid with both- charges. 

Zhenya is a big man with long reach. He's tall and strong and much heavier than he looks, but Chara is a giant and has at least sixty pounds over Zhenya in skeleton alone. Zhenya throws punches at Chara's cheeks and mouth, gets a hand fisted in the logo of Chara's jersey. He feels his own helmet fly off, the strap choking him on the way as it gets stuck on his Adam's apple, and then it's just a flurry of fists to his sides and his face. He keeps punching back, but they're weak and he can barely see through the blur of sweat and maybe blood blocking his eyes. His world spins and then he's flat on his back on the ice, Clara's weight crushing him. 

"You are outmatched," Chara says into Zhenya's ear, even as one of the linesmen drag him away. Zhenya rolls to his knees and spits blood to the ice. It takes him longer than he's proud of to skate to the penalty box. When he looks up, Sid's standing near Flower, his lips pressed into a tight line but perfectly fine and whole. 

The last minute and a half is tense, and Zhenya twists his hands around his stick to ease see of his anxiety. He's got a throbbing headache and what's sure to be an incredible black eye starting. When the final buzzer sounds, the Penguins have won. Zhenya hangs his head as he joins the rest of his team and barely places his glove on top of Flowers helmet before sprinting off the ice. He's ashamed of himself and not particularly looking forward to Sid's disapproving lecture. 

"Chara," Muzz says as Zhenya starts stripping out of his gear. Zhenya scowls at him. He misses the terrified rookie from last year. " _Chara_."

"Fuck off," Zhenya snarls. It pulls at his mouth in painful ways that Sid's chapstick isn't going to fix. At least all his teeth feel solid and attached. He thinks he's going to escape while Sid's tied down with media, but Tanger blocks the door because Tanger is awful and more loyal to Sid than he is to anyone else. 

"Get out of my way," Zhenya says, shoving his shoulder into Tanger's. Tanger holds his ground, arms crossed over his chest. 

"You know he's going to want to talk to you," Tanger says. 

"Can wait. Want to fucking _sleep_." Zhenya pushes again and Tanger lets him pass. He says something rude in French and Zhenya holds up a middle finger. It's not running if he knows the outcome will still be the same. At least this way, he can tend to his bruises and fucked up face before he gets scolded like a child. 

He nearly trips over the bag of salt in the front hallway when he gets home, and he kicks it angrily out of the way. Giant purple stones spill out from a tear and Zhenya swears. He'll clean it up in the morning. He just wants to ice his fucking face and sleep off his embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I'm glad the Pens let me be right about them stomping the Coyotes, Geno please don't fight Chara.


	4. December 15, 2016

Sid shows up at eight in the morning. Zhenya's been up for an hour, and he knows that Sid would have shown up even earlier if he'd been actually pissed off. Zhenya lets him in and heads back toward the living room, muting the TV. He's finally gotten around to marathoning Friends, but it's taking him twice as long to watch because they talk too fast and some of the jokes are dated and Zhenya has to look them up to get the references. Sid glances at the TV and smiles. It had been his suggestion in the first place. 

"Start yell," Zhenya says, picking up the ice pack on the table and pressing it against his eye. He'd been right. He's got a doozy of a shiner and a split lip besides. There's a bruise on his left side roughly the size and shape of a cantaloupe that hurts every time he leans too far that way. "Headache gone. Only pride hurt now."

"Sure looks that way," Sid says dryly. He sits next to Zhenya, their knees knocking together as he gets comfortable. Sid always complains that Zhenya's furniture is too soft. "G, you went after Zdeno fucking Chara. What were you thinking?"

"Bad hit," Zhenya mumbles. Sid side eyes him and Zhenya sighs. "Maybe little angry, too. I'm better this season. Not so many penalties, but still mad. He just last hay."

"Straw," Sid corrects absently. Zhenya sighs again. "You've been doing good with the penalties lately. Try to keep it up, huh? We're having good seasons. I don't want you out because you went after someone bigger than you because you were cranky." Sid nods, speech delivered, and Zhenya waits. He's had a thousand Crosby lectures before. They're never this easy. 

"That it?" Zhenya asks when Sid starts looking for the remote. Zhenya's got a phone meeting with Pat later in the day to go over his schedule one last time for the year, but unless something sudden springs up, he's thankfully free all day. He's going to spend it mostly icing his face and ignoring his phone. He's already listened to one voicemail from Sasha that was just four straight minutes of laughing. 

"Oh! I brought you this." Sid shoves a plastic wrapped sphere of something at him. Zhenya holds his hands out before it can fall. It smells strongly of lavender, even through the plastic. The top is tied with a little purple bow. "Taylor sent me some. You smell like a girl after you use them, but they do help with the soreness."

"You… bring me bath thing?" Zhenya asks, holding it up in front of his face. It's small enough that it fits in his fist easily, pale purple with darker flecks of what looks like glitter. Oksana had loved them, but Zhenya had always left her to it when she brought them out. It's been years since he's even seen one. Sid's shoulders go tight. 

"You don't have to use it or whatever," Sid says, stroppy, his face turned toward the TV. "It's helped me before, I thought you could use it, so I brought it. What season are you on?" Zhenya tries imagining Sid sinking into a bath that smells too much like flowers and has to abruptly cut that train of thought off. He'll save it for some other time, when Sid's not currently doing his twitchy, awkward routine. 

"Very nice gift," Zhenya says, setting it on the coffee table. "Season three. Can start episode over if you want." He's willing to start all the way back at the pilot episode if it means Sid will stay distracted from a lecture. But Sid just picks up the remote, rewinds to the start, and pulls his legs up onto the couch, settling in like he'd been invited. 

To be fair, Zhenya has always given him an open invitation to everything. He's gotten used to Sid letting himself in and making himself comfortable, has come home more than once to Sid already there, dinner cooking or take out sitting on the dining room table. The single time the Penguins as a unit had decided that camping sounded like something they wanted to do, Sid had crawled into Zhenya's tent, dragging his sleeping bag along and bitching about the cold and Kuni's snoring.

Probably he should put up some sort of fight- it had taken Mario years to get Sid out of his place, even if he hadn't been trying all that hard- but Zhenya likes having Sid around. They don't have to talk to be companionable, don't have to do much of anything at all but be near each other. Plus, if Zhenya whines loud enough, Sid will cook for them both. It's a good system that they've developed. 

They spend most of the day on the couch, Friends playing in the background. Zhenya makes his phone calls and Sid reluctantly answers his emails, poking away at his phone and making disgruntled noises every time Zhenya interrupts him. As predicted, Sid makes lunch with whatever he finds in the kitchen. He has to rock on his toes a bit to pull the pot he wants off the hook dangling above the island in the middle of the kitchen, grumbling under his breath the whole time. It's endearing and Zhenya settles in to watch. 

"You could help, you know," Sid says as he chops the green ends off a few carrots. 

"Why? You just tell me I'm do wrong," Zhenya says. "Is better if I just sit."

"You're such a dick," Sid mutters. He keeps chopping, throwing the vegetables into the pot. It isn't until he pulls out the chicken Zhenya had been planning on making for dinner that he realizes Sid is making soup. He grins and leans back on the stool. He should have seen it coming sooner, really. Once December sets in, Sid's all about keeping the team healthy, and he usually starts with Zhenya. Flower calls it favoritism, like he doesn't get his own share of the clucking and worry. 

Eventually, Sid does leave. He packs up the rest of the soup for the freezer while Zhenya throws the dishes into the dishwasher. Zhenya's ninety percent sure that Sid's going to let the Chara thing go, but he still holds his breath when Sid backs him against the sink. Sid touches the swollen, tender skin under Zhenya's eye and it feels like he's been punched all over again. 

"Telling you not to do dumb shit has never worked," Sid says. He shakes his head and takes a step back. The place he'd been touching tingles and Zhenya has to stop himself from reaching up to rub at it. "But if you could maybe try not to get yourself killed, I'd really appreciate it."

"Okay, Sid," Zhenya says. They both know it's a lost cause, but Sid still smiles anyway. 

When Sid's gone, Zhenya grabs the bath thing from the table where he'd left it, considers his options, and decides to go for it. His side is killing him and his shoulders have been locked up all day, and if Sid says it works, it probably does.


	5. December 16, 2016

The Kings murder them. Zhenya knows all good things have to come to an end, even and especially winning streaks, but he's still angry about it. If they had to lose, it shouldn't have been on the last night of the homestand on the backs of two victories. It shouldn't have been on a night they have to fly out to fucking Toronto. Zhenya yanks on his suit and grinds his teeth. 

"I'm going to grab a drink with Carts and Tishy before we go to the airport," Sid says, sitting on the bench next to Zhenya. He pulls on his shoes, already scuffed beyond repair, and adjusts his tie. His upper lip is still a little swollen from the stick to the face he'd taken against the Bruins and he lisps a little when he talks. "Want to come with?"

"Carter is asshole," Zhenya says with feeling. He doesn't understand how Sid can hang around him. Country and gold metals aside, Carter is nothing like Sid at all. 

"You guys got into one fight, like, three years ago," Sid says with a frown. "I think you can give up the grudge now."

"You keep shitty friend," Zhenya says. He pulls on his jacket and the toque Sid had given him. Sid stares at if for a moment and Zhenya wonders if he'd forgotten about it. "You buy drinks, I talk to Tishy, you keep asshole on other side of table." Sid's eyes jerk down from the hat and a slow smile spreads across his mouth. 

"Deal," he says. 

They go to a fancy bar a few miles away from the rink after they hand their pre-packed suitcases over to Dana. Sid asks for a private room and doesn't even hesitate when the bartender asks for his autograph. Zhenya adds his own scribbles to the napkin and hopes she doesn't ask for a photo. His eye, thankfully, isn't too swollen, but the side of his face is more blue and green than pink. He doesn't need that spread all over the Internet. His mother would go crazy if she saw. 

Carter looks like a q-tip in his black suit, his hair more visible than his face. Zhenya snubs his nose up and takes the seat at the far end of the table, waving Tishy over. Carter rolls his eyes and holds up his fist for Sid to bump. Zhenya doesn't say hello, but Carter doesn't either. 

Sid keeps his word. He buys Zhenya three beers- just enough to get him a little buzzed, but not enough to make the plane ride uncomfortable- and keeps all of Carter's attention on himself. Tishy is more upbeat here than he'd ever been in the room with the Pens. It's overwhelmingly clear that he's happier with the Kings and it makes Zhenya feel guilty. He always tries to make everyone feel welcome, always does his best to try to make the transition between teams easy, but Tishy had fallen easily through the cracks and it's too late to make up for it. 

Everything is going fine until Sid gets up to use the bathroom. He has to wiggle out of the booth, his ass too big to be graceful, and Zhenya does his best to keep his back turned. He's almost clear of having to act nice with Carter when Tishy decides he needs more beer. It feels like a setup. 

"Sharing clothes now?" Carter asks around the mouth of his bottle, his eyes flicking up toward Zhenya's hat. Zhenya ignores him. "You know, I always wondered when you two would get all nice and cozy. It could be worse, I guess." Anger bubbles hot under Zhenya's skin. He wishes they were back on the ice. There, at least, he'd be able to put his fist into Carter's face without worrying about punishment. 

"How's Richards?" Zhenya asks. It's a low blow, meaner than Zhenya usually is, but it feels _so good_. Carter's face twists up. He doesn't try to talk to Zhenya again. 

When it's finally time to leave, Sid hugs Tishy and Carter. They're formal hugs, brief, nothing at all like the ones he gives to the team, and Zhenya feels victorious that knowledge. He's never claimed not to be a jealous creature, and from the smug, knowing look Carter shoots him over Sid's shoulder, he's not subtle about it either. 

After that, it's a blur of going to the airport and waiting to board. Their luggage is already checked in and the trip is short enough that Zhenya doesn't even bother with a carry-on bag. His extra phone charger is in with Sid's stuff and everything else he needs is in his suitcase. When they finally get called, Zhenya slumps into his usual seat and struggles out of his suit jacket. The planes are always too cold, but he can't sleep in something with lapels. He's fussing with the too small airplane blanket when Sid ducks in under the overhead compartment. 

"Hey, I have an audio book for you," Sid says. "I downloaded it because it sounded interesting, but the narrator goes too fast for me to understand."

"Too fast for you?" Zhenya asks, eyebrows raised. "How you think I'm listen if is too fast for you?" Sid scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, his face still pink from the beers and the cold. 

"It's, uh, it's in Russian," he says sheepishly. "I thought I'd try to listen to it like I used to listen to French books? But everything kind of runs together." 

"You trying to learn Russian again?" Zhenya asks, surprised. Sid had tried when Zhenya had first joined the Penguins, fumbling and awkward and worse than Zhenya's English. Eventually it had dropped off, time and interest dwindling quickly. Sid shrugs. 

"One day I'll understand all the shit you talk about me when you think I can't hear you," he says. 

"All nice things," Zhenya says. It's not strictly true and Sid seems to know it. "Okay, but some insults only work in Russian. English is bad for good insults."

"Do you want the book or not?" Sid asks. He's drooping, his shoulders hunched and his eyes half lidded. He looks like he's going to fall over any second. Zhenya takes pity on him and nods. Sid grins and wanders off towards his usual seat. Flower's already snoring against the window, his mouth open under his hideous eye mask. 

Zhenya's phone buzzes a moment later with the download link for the book. Zhenya clicks on it, pulls his headphones out, and has just enough time to pull it up before he has to cut the wifi. The book is called _Den' Oprichnika_ , and even though there isn't nearly enough time on the flight to listen to the whole thing, Zhenya pulls it up anyway. Sometimes, it's nice to just listen to his own language. He almost never has problems understanding English anymore, but he thinks about Sid speaking with him in Russian and feels warm.


	6. December 17, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I have game predicting powers. Note to self: only write about the Pens winning. Thank you guys for sticking around and leaving comments. I'm having so much fun with this and I'm glad you guys are too.

Press in Toronto is always something else. Zhenya thinks it's stupid. He always says the same things. _Sid_ \- who the press really want to talk to, Zhenya's not kidding himself- always says the same things. It's not like one day they're going to get Sid to crack and admit that he hates the Penguins, thinks hockey as a whole is flawed, and is running away with a mistress in the night. Zhenya and Flower have attempted to get him to do _something_ interesting, but Sid is a spoilsport who never has any fun. 

Zhenya pulls on his dress shirt, his shoulders a little sore from the way he'd been twisted on the plane. He'll have to have a trainer look at him before the game. A quick massage and he'll be back in perfect shape. The perks of being a professional athlete are sometimes more than he can even fathom. When he'd been a kid, there had been straight weeks where his body had ached and twisted in pain and he'd still gone out to play, still gone out to prove himself. Sometimes it feels like he's reached the end of the line, with nowhere else to go. He's won two Cups, he's broken records, he's won his trophies. The rest is pandering and maintaining. 

It's maudlin and entirely pointless to think about. Zhenya's not leaving hockey any time soon. If he doesn't know what to look forward to, he'll just follow the team's example. If he doesn't know what else to strive for, he'll just have to work harder to try to pass Sid. It's an impossible goal, but Zhenya likes a challenge. 

"Breakfast, you lazy shit," Tanger yells through the door. Zhenya throws a shoe at it, the heel leaving a black scuff on the white paint. It's not the worst damage he's ever done to a hotel room- that had been in Moscow after a particularly painful night in with Sasha and Tema that had ended with him getting tossed out- but he still feels guilty. He can hear Tanger laughing the whole way down the hall. 

Zhenya pulls on his shoes and spends longer than he really wants looking for his cufflinks. When he can't find them, he just rolls the cuffs of his sleeves halfway up his forearms and calls it a job well done. It'll be a little uncomfortable when he puts his jacket on, but he'll live with it. He'll just steal someone else's after the game, when the inevitable look nice for the camera stuff happens. 

The team takes up most of the dining hall, all of them spread out across tables, talking too loud over the soft piano music that Zhenya thinks is supposed to make the place seem classy. Sully is watching over them all from a corner, his face friendly but his eyes narrowed. He's a good coach, a great one even, but Zhenya generally tries to steer clear. Sometimes, it feels like Sully can see right through him. It's unsettling. 

Zhenya fills his plate at the buffet and squeezes into the seat between Shearsy and Bones. He's starving, and even though hotel pancakes are always weird and rubbery no matter how allegedly upscale the place is, Zhenya still shoves half a stack into his mouth. Bones gives him a disgusted look, his nose wrinkling and his mouth curling, and Zhenya chews aggressively at him. It's the small details that really lead to team bonding.

"Nice look," Shearsy says, nodding at Zhenya's shirt. He's got his glasses on and his hair fluffed up, looking like nothing more than a baby chick. Zhenya bops him on the nose with his fork. Shearsy doesn't even blink. He's a good kid. 

"Forgot cufflinks," Zhenya says. Across the table, Sid frowns, wincing when his swollen lip pulls. He and Zhenya are a matched set of hot mess. 

"I have a few extra pairs in my bag," he says. Zhenya snorts. Of course he does. They're probably arranged in order of luckiness. "Shut up. You look like a tool. I have too many anyway." 

"I say nothing," Zhenya says. Sid eyes him for a moment before standing up and marching back toward the elevators. Shearsy stares after him and Zhenya takes advantage of this distraction to steal Shearsy's bacon. Waste not, want not. 

"A thousand for Christmas day," Flower says, pounding the center of the table hard enough to make his orange juice wobble. 

"New Years," Olli says. 

"Nuh-uh. I'm calling seniority. I get New Years," Tanger says, leaning over Bones to poke Zhenya in the chest. "Don't fuck it up, Eugene. I will not lose to Flower _again_."

"Fuck what up?" Zhenya asks, mouth still half full of stolen bacon. Bones makes a noise and shoves himself away from the table, grabbing his plate and muttering under his breath. Zhenya spreads his knees wider and enjoys the free space. 

"New Years," Tanger repeats, like Zhenya has any idea what he's talking about. 

He's saved when Sid slides into Bones' empty chair, a little gray box in his hand. Zhenya puts his fork down and unrolls his sleeves, shaking out the wrinkles. He holds up one arm and Sid grabs him around down the wrist, fingers deft as he slides the cufflink in through the buttonholes. He fusses with the cuff for a moment before grabbing Zhenya's other wrist and repeating the process. 

It feels strangely intimate. Sid's sitting so close Zhenya can smell his cologne, his head bowed as he watches his hands. Zhenya's struck with the sudden desire to pull Sid closer, to duck his own head so he can rest their foreheads together like they've done hundreds of times before. When Sid looks up, Zhenya's heart skips a beat. It's ridiculous. It's _Sid_. 

"Christmas eve," Olli says and Zhenya jerks away. Sid slides the box into Zhenya's coat pocket and wanders back off towards the buffet, dumping the cold food off his plate and putting it in the dish bin. 

Zhenya looks down at the cufflinks, square bits of onyx and gold because Sid is achingly predictable, and tries to figure out what he's feeling.


	7. December 18, 2016

The Children's Hospital visit is always good and terrible. Zhenya loves seeing the kids, loves being able to brighten their day even a little bit, loves doing something good for the city that adopted him as one of their own- but to see these kids and know that some of them will ever leave crushes him on the inside. When he'd been their ages, he'd been healthy and whole and working towards the life he has now. Those kids are stronger than he'll ever be and he wishes that they didn't have to be. 

The team shows up in their jerseys and collects their Santa hats and their sacks of goods to hand out. Some of the presents have post-its with room numbers tacked to the sides, and there's a loose scattering of Pens branded hats in the mix. Zhenya double cheeks his pockets to make sure he's got his Sharpies and joins the group ready to go out. 

Flower always gets extra bright and chipper at the hospital. His smiles are wider, his jokes- cleaned up for little ears- are told more often, he laughs the loudest. Zhenya knows he's thinking about his daughters, hiding his panic and fear behind the goofy act. Zhenya tries to stay close to Flower on these trips, touches him more to hold him down in reality. They've never spoken about it, but Zhenya doesn't think they need the words. 

They wander the hospital with security for a few hours, popping into rooms in small groups. Zhenya doesn't know if half the kids even watch hockey, if they're excited because the Penguins are there or if they're just excited to have any visitors all. He tries to treat them all the same, the ones that light up when they see the Pens logo and the ones that look at the nurses with confusion before offering up tentative greetings. They all deserve the same comfort and respect. 

Zhenya is asked for specifically by a ten year old with lung cancer. Flower squeezes Zhenya's elbow when he follows his security escort away from the group and into a different wing. Zhenya's got his sack of gifts in one hand and the fluffy ball of his hat keeps falling over into his face and making his nose itch. He feels ridiculous and a little scared. He's always nervous that he won't live up to expectations and he hates to disappoint. The guard motions at the door and Zhenya glances over his shoulder at the intern that's been assigned to follow him with a camera. It always feels so cheap documenting these things. 

"Kerri?" Zhenya asks as he peeks his head into the room. The hospital is full of noises, but Kerri's room is relatively quiet. Zhenya takes a full step in and peeks his head around the corner of the room's little hall. 

There's a small girl in the middle of the bed, bundled up in a sweater and covered up to her waist with a thick blanket. She looks a little yellow, her skin pale and her eyes bruise dark. Her blonde hair is cropped close like a buzzcut. Zhenya can hear the roughness of her breath from across the room, the harsh in drag of it and the shaky, uneven exhales. She looks up and her face transforms completely.

"Geno? Is that really you?" She sits up fast enough that Zhenya worries. "Wow. You're really tall." Her voice is breathy and high, hard to understand unless Zhenya listens closely. 

"You just little," Zhenya says. He sits in the chair next to her bed and holds out his hand. Kerri wraps one of her tiny hands around three of his fingers and shakes somberly. 

"No, you're really tall," she says. "Taller than my dad and he's _really_ tall."

"You only like me because I'm tall?" Zhenya asks. Kerri points to the corner of the room and Zhenya smiles when he sees a miniature version of his jersey hanging off a coat hook. 

"You play the best hockey," Kerri says very seriously. Zhenya preens and she giggles. "I've watched you since I was five."

"Very long time," Zhenya says, and he means it to be a joke, but it's also true. He's been playing in Pittsburgh longer than she's been alive. It makes him feel so much older than he is. "You make best choice."

"I know," Kerri says, with all the confidence in the world. "I cheered for you in the World Cup, too." It stings, a little, the same way it always does whenever Russia's national teams are brought up, but Zhenya just smiles and bumps her little fist. 

They talk for a little while. Kerri isn't allowed to leave her bed, but Zhenya stays close and looks at all the things she wants him to see. When her thin voice starts to crack, he tells stories about the team, shows her a muted video or photos. A woman in jeans and a black sweater is crying quietly in the corner of the room, behind Kerri's bed, her hand over her mouth to keep the sounds in. It has to be Kerri's mother. Zhenya keeps Kerri's attention on him as he pulls one of the hats from his sack and helps Kerri pull it on over her buzzed hair. 

"Most pretty," Zhenya says, tapping Kerri's nose with the tip of his finger. Her skin is cold, papery.

Zhenya wants to wrap her up in his arms and protect her from everything. He can't do either. Instead, he leans in to take a photo with her, their heads pressed together and Zhenya's arm around her tiny shoulders. When Zhenya's security guard peeks back in and taps his watch, Zhenya goes across the room and autographs her jersey. It's nothing. It's literally nothing at all. Zhenya gives her a gentle hug before he leaves the room, walking down the hall fast before her mother can catch up to him. He doesn't want to be thanked. 

He joins back up with his group in the maternity ward. The babies are cute and most of them are healthy, fat and pink and various levels of bald. Flower's looking through the window, but it's clear he's not there, his eyes glossed over and the corner of his mouth twitching. When Zhenya stands next to him, Flower bumps their elbows together. It's also nothing at all, but it makes Zhenya feel better anyway. 

At the end of the day, Zhenya is exhausted. He's held babies and signed enough things to dry out two Sharpies and his face hurts from smiling for so many photos. He writes out his yearly check at the front desk, the same gift he's given since he'd signed his first real contract, and is glad that he can at least give money. It feels like that's all he has to offer sometimes. Money for charities, money for the orphanages in Russia, money for medical bills of suffering strangers. He can't help with his own two hands, but he can pay for someone else's expertise. It's pathetic. 

He begs off going out to dinner with the team. He just wants to go home, to maybe call his mother and prepare himself for the holiday party, which is so far removed from what he's seen today that it could be from an entirely different world. He feels his age deeply, right in that moment, and he doesn't want to drag the rest of the guys down. 

When he gets home, he throws the Santa hat into the closet and hangs his jersey up, swaps his jeans for sweats and ditches his henley. He orders in Thai and sulks in front of the television, starting up Netflix and clicking over to Friends. It's just mindless noise, nothing to really keep him distracted, but it's what he's got and it's what he's going to do. 

The doorbell rings after an episode and a half and Zhenya pulls a t-shirt on before answering the door. He's expecting his food, but instead he's met with a giant stuffed penguin in a red scarf. The black, beady eyes stare blankly at him and Zhenya blinks back at it. 

"I thought it would look good next to the tiger," Sid says, peeking around the edge of the fat, black body. He looks younger without the hideous beard, but the thick black line of stitches on his lip stands out more. His eyes are bright and the corner of his mouth is turned up in a soft smile. He's still wearing his Santa hat. 

"You steal from little kids?" Zhenya asks as Sid shoves him out of the way. Sid kicks off his sneakers, arms still wrapped around the penguin's middle, and veers toward the living room. Zhenya looks around his yard, but there's nothing and no one else there. Just snow and the fluffy, bright Christmas decorations he'd set up last week. 

"It was in the gift shop," Sid shouts. When Zhenya follows after him, the penguin has been placed next to Zhenya's prized stuffed tiger, leaning a little to the side. It does look good there, even if Zhenya doesn't understand why it's there at all. "Flower said you looked pretty rough."

"I'm fine, Sid," Zhenya says. He slumps back down onto the couch and wonders if he ordered enough food for two. "Always little sad after visit."

"I know," Sid says. He strips out of his jersey and folds it carefully, setting it on the armchair. His faded Reebok t-shirt stretches across his shoulders as he goes about getting comfortable. Zhenya watches the fabric bunch and release, catches sight of a wear hole in the collar that's probably big enough to hook two fingers into. "We made those kids a little happier today, you know?"

"Not enough," Zhenya says. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He'll get over it. He always does. Tomorrow he'll see the team's healthy, happy kids, and the day after that it's back to hockey, and he'll forget until this time next year. He startles when Sid's cold fingers wrap around his wrist. Sid doesn't move him, doesn't do anything but hold on. 

"It counts, G," Sid says softly. "It counts." He keeps his hand there until the doorbell rings again.


	8. December 19, 2016

Estelle is just as bossy as her father, but she's infinitely cuter. She demands all of Zhenya's attention at the holiday party, dragging him around by the hand and dictating what activities they're going to do. Zhenya's back aches from being hunched over, but Estelle is ecstatic every time he tells her a goofy joke or picks her up, and Zhenya is so terribly weak. Flower keeps shooting him looks that Zhenya cheerfully ignores. Flower has another daughter to play with. Zhenya's keeping this one. 

Zhenya sits at the crafts table with Estelle, his knees nearly up to his ears in the tiny chair. They glue together little wooden reindeer and Zhenya gets glitter under his nails. He agrees to wear the bow she holds up just for her giggle when she slaps it down on his head. When he looks up, Sid's watching them, smiling faintly. He's got Alex balanced on one hip, even though Alex is getting too big to be carried around, and is nodding every few seconds to whatever Alex is talking about. They share a moment, just the two of them, and Zhenya aches for this all the time. Children to entertain, friends that know him so deeply he doesn't even need words. Sid, watching him with such approval and affection that Zhenya can feel it in his bones. 

After getting Estelle to eat more than just sweets for lunch, she teaches him her new favorite Christmas carol. It's got so many words and numbers in it that Zhenya has no hope of keeping up, but he learns fast enough to be boisterous whenever she reaches the five gold rings part. Some of the other guys join in for one or two rounds, but it peters out quickly. She sings for what feels like forever, but she's having fun and that's all Zhenya cares about. 

Eventually, Vero steals her daughter away for a nap, and the other kids are gone soon after. It means the booze gets broken out and added liberally to every drink available. Zhenya grabs an eggnog and toasts as Rusty screws up his nose in disgust. Rusty has no taste. It's such a shame. 

"And everyone calls _me_ baby crazy," Sid says. The cup he's carrying is suspiciously empty and Zhenya makes a note to rectify that as soon as possible. Sid is a hilariously earnest drunk and Zhenya doesn't get to experience it nearly enough. 

"You are baby crazy," Zhenya says. He slings his arm over Sid's shoulders and drags him in, steering them toward the booze table. Sid doesn't even bother fighting him. They've got this routine down. "I'm see you with Alex. Tanger still not forgive you for kidnap."

"I didn't kidnap him," Sid protests, knocking his shoulder against Zhenya's chest. It's uncomfortably close to the hulking bruise that's still lingering, but Zhenya twists just enough to avoid it. "We were literally around the corner."

"You just not fast enough," Geno says sagely. "Crosby fast on skates, slow when run. You lose all races."

"Bullshit. I will race you right now," Sid says. He's making that face that means he's only half kidding. If Zhenya agrees, he has no doubts that Sid will make an obstacle course right there in the rink, spectators be damned. 

"Don't want embarrass you," Zhenya says. He steals Sid's cup and pours him a generous shot of rum. Sid won't drink eggnog with him, but he likes the spiced rum the team usually uses to spike it. "Is Christmas present."

"I hope you got me something better than that," Sid says. Zhenya has not, in fact, gotten anyone anything for Christmas yet because he's a notoriously bad shopper and gift giver. All of his friends are multi-millionaires. Anything they want, they can get for themselves, and Sid in particular is fastidious with his tastes, even if he always makes all the appropriate thank you noises. Zhenya's seen the junk section in Sid's basement. He knows better. 

"What you get me?" Zhenya asks, because he knows Sid's already got his shopping for the year done. He's always done at the end of November. His presents aren't always the most logical choices, but they're usually practical if not terribly exciting. Once, he'd bought Zhenya tire chains and hadn't even looked bothered when Zhenya sighed a lot at him. 

"You'll find out on Christmas," Sid says. He pokes around at the food table, stealing a little plate of ham rolls and shoving one in his mouth. 

"Boring," Zhenya says. He takes a long drink of his eggnog and relishes in the burn of the rum at the back of his throat. "You tell me what I get, I tell you what you get."

"That didn't work when Taylor tried it when we were kids, it's not going to work now," Sid says. He grabs the gift bags with their names written on them off of the counters and drags Zhenya back to a table, already pulling the fluffy black and yellow paper away from the top. 

Sid pokes around Zhenya's gift bag, stealing the candy canes out and swapping something else into it, just like he's done at every holiday party since 2007. He doesn't even like peppermint, doesn't even unwrap the candy canes, but he has a thing for hanging them on his Christmas tree, and he can't figure out how to custom order black and yellow ones from any of the decoration shops. Zhenya waits patiently for him to finish before looking inside. 

A delicate glass ball rests on top of the promotional materials and assorted sweets. Zhenya pulls it out and holds it up to the light to make out the etched design. One one side is the Penguins logo. The Cup is on the other side, rendered beautifully with tiny, wispy lines. It's pretty, and Zhenya doesn't normally decorate his own tree, but he makes a note to hang it up after the decorator has come and gone. 

He looks around for the rest of the night, trying to see of the other guys got different Christmas ornaments, but no one else seems to have one. He means to tease Sid for getting special gifts for being captain, but he gets distracted and is too drunk to remember when he has the chance.


	9. December 20, 2016

Zhenya does his best not to get involved with Sid's routines- once you're in, you're in for life, there's no escaping it- but there's a few places that he's managed to fall into accidentally. The pre-game handshake, of course. Two touch after warm-ups. Captain and Alternates meeting during second intermission with Kuni, the three of them left in a bubble of space until Sid dismisses them. And then there's the pre-Rangers lunch. 

It doesn't matter if they're at home or in New York. They have places in both cities that they can go to, both of them so familiar with the menus Zhenya could probably recite them from memory. It's been part of Zhenya's routine for so long that he barely remembers how it started. He does remember those first few lunches, though, awkward and full of stilted conversation. Zhenya's never gotten over his love of Sid's hockey, but back then he'd barely been able to remember what English he had when he'd been alone with the NHL's golden boy. They've come a long way since then. 

Zhenya arrives at Sid's house at eleven thirty, his gear bag in the backseat and his stomach empty. He shivers as he lets himself in, cold wind biting at his nose and the back of his neck. He loves hockey, loves the ice, but he'd take summer over winter any day. He finds Sid in the living room, leaned back on the couch, talking on the phone. Sid laughs, loud and shameless, and Zhenya knows without doubt that it's Taylor on the other side. 

There's a Grandfather Frost on Sid's entertainment center. It's just a little bigger than the size of Zhenya's hand laid flat, but the small, serious face is painted beautifully, and there's intricate patterns embroidered down the figure's pale robe. It looks hand made, too beautiful and too well crafted to be anything but. It stands out against the red coats of the various Santas around it, tall and severe. Zhenya wanders closer, reaching out to touch the delicate robe. It's soft, made of silk and what feels like real fur at the hems and collar. The beard is made up of individual hairs, white as snow and long. Zhenya worries he'll break it if he keeps touching it. 

"When you get this?" Zhenya asks when Sid pockets his phone. 

"Oh, I found it at a craft fair," Sid says. "It's pretty, right?"

"Pittsburgh craft fair have Grandfather Frost?" Zhenya asks skeptically. Sid doesn't even blink, just nods and wanders off towards the game room. 

"It came with a second one," Sid says, his voice muffled. When he comes back, he's holding a long, thin box in his hand. "I meant to give it to you earlier, but I kept forgetting to bring it in."

Zhenya pulls the lid of the box off. Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, is the most beautiful Snegurochka doll Zhenya has ever seen. Her face is delicate, with a small upturned nose and wide pink lips painted so well that Zhenya can almost feel the roughness of them when he strokes her skin with a gentle fingertip. Her eyes are closed, long eyelashes fanning over the swell of her pale cheeks. An elaborate crown sits on top of her head, thin strands of white stones around her throat to keep it on. Her dress glitters under the light, made of what looks like thousands of tiny, multicolored beads. The gentle arch of her collarbones peek over the neckline of the dress, so small that Zhenya can't imagine how they were sculpted. It's not a New Year's decoration. It's art. 

"How much you pay for this?" Zhenya asks. He doesn't buy Sid's craft fair story at all.

"Not that much," Sid says. Zhenya eyes him, but Sid holds his ground. Even if he did waste a ton of money on the dolls, it's not like he doesn't have even more left to spare. "The artist was really friendly when I told her I wanted to give that one to you. I think she's Russian, too."

"Is very pretty," Zhenya says. He can barely take his eyes off of it, busy studying all the details and care that had clearly gone into its creation. "You sure you not want to keep?"

"Nah, I got it for you. Plus, if I have two Russian Christmas figures, Tanger will call me a traitor to Canada again." Sid pulls on his coat and looks towards the door impatiently. "Come on. I'm starving." Zhenya carefully puts the lid back on the box and lets Sid guide him out to the car. 

They go to Pickles. It's a hole in the wall, the storefront barely even visible on the street, which had been part of the appeal. They don't have to give their usual order anymore, but the waitress always comes to them anyway to double check. Zhenya thinks it's maybe a joke. Sid is fidgety in the booth, his fingers twitched against the table and his legs crossing and uncrossing below it. 

"You nervous about game?" Zhenya asks. Sid's still on a hot streak, even it had technically been broken. Lundqvist is always a hard goalie to go up against, but they're playing well. There's nothing to be nervous about. 

"No," Sid says, but his hands are still moving restlessly. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

"Probably go to see Gonch," Zhenya says. "You going to Canada? See family?" They've actually got a decent break for Christmas and Flower's been making noise about taking the girls up to see their grandparents. Zhenya envies it a little. They have a game New Year's Eve, and even though the team has an entire week off after it, the effort to fly there and back to Russia just isn't worth it. 

"I think I'm going to stay here," Sid says. He fidgets with his fork until Zhenya kicks him. "Taylor's going to come stay over the New Year's break though. She wants to see you, if you've got time." 

"Have to make time for two Crosbys?" Zhenya asks, bracing his chin on his hand, elbow on the table in the way that usually offends Sid's good sense of table manners. Sid doesn't even seem to notice, which is more worrying than all the nervous twitching. "When I eat? When I _sleep_? You two very loud."

"The last time you came over when Taylor was visiting, my neighbors wrote me a strongly worded letter about the noise," Sid says. "Don't talk to me about loud." There had been a wrestling match over the last of the batch of cookies Nathalie had sent home with Sid. Zhenya had been holding back, not as rough with Taylor as he would have been with Sid, but Taylor had sharp little fingers and the same competitive spirit that drove her brother. Zhenya had been outmatched from the start. 

"She have very good reach for someone her size," Zhenya says. Sid grins, proud and smug, and doesn't stop until his customary sandwich and salad are brought to the table. 

They eat quickly, time not something they really have to spare on game days, and whatever Sid's been worrying about seems to fade away from him. His twitching stops and his shoulders loosen. If he wants to talk about it, he will. If he doesn't, Zhenya will never know. It's frustrating and Zhenya has a nosy streak a mile wide, but Sid holds onto his secrets better than anyone Zhenya's ever met. 

When they get to the rink, Zhenya takes the box with the doll inside and asks security to hold onto it. He could have left it in the car- no one would steal it- but he'd worried about the cold cracking the porcelain. He doesn't want to needlessly break Sid's gift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, this is the Snow Maiden doll:
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> The artist, who is in fact Russian-Canadian because the Internet loves me, has a ton of other handmade dolls that are stunning and can be found [here,](http://www.enchanteddoll.com/galleries1/#all) but be warned the gallery is NSFW.


	10. December 21, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why did I decide to stick to a real timeline? Screw it. I know the video had to be shot awhile ago, but I don't care. Screw reality, this is fiction. I do what I want.

The Penguins PR and media relations people are vicious and cruel. Excellent at their jobs, to be sure, but terrible nonetheless. Zhenya _should_ be at home. He'd even take an extra skate day. He's got the energy for it. But this video Christmas card thing is stupid and he doesn't want anything to do with it. 

"You're in it for one scene," Olli says, legs crossed under him as Anna powders his face. It all feels very familiar. 

"You don't have to put on elf suit," Zhenya says, because that's a big part of where his contention lies. One suit, too many sweaty guys, too many bright, hot lights. He pities whatever poor bastard gets it last. Olli grins, bright and smug. 

Video days are always a little weird. There's freedom to wander, as long as everyone sticks to the shooting schedule, but they're not allowed to leave the building or do anything to mess up their hair or makeup, which is so ridiculous that Zhenya can't even complain about it. Instead, he sets himself up in a corner of the room with the blue screen and pulls out his headphones. He hasn't had a chance to sit and listen to _Den' Oprichnika_ all the way through yet. It's funny and smart, sly in a way that keeps Zhenya interested. He's only gotten to go through little snatches at a time, but he's savoring it. 

Somehow, Bones got the first shoot. He gets the clean outfit, and the clean, hideous wig, and Zhenya has to listen to him caterwaul and pretend it's singing. He tries cranking up the sound on his phone, but it doesn't do much good. 

Filming goes on forever. None of them are particularly good actors- Ian, maybe, but even that's stretching it- and it's hard to keep a straight face when the guys are watching from behind the camera. Zhenya gives up on his audiobook after an hour, too distracted to give it proper attention. As soon as his headphones are out, Flower sits next to him, perched daintily on the skinny arm of Zhenya's chair. 

"Rock paper scissors for who gets to throw the snowball at Sid," he says, holding his closed fist out. "I've already beaten all the other competition." Zhenya jostles him, setting his phone down and holding out his own hand. Sid's cranky that the guys have been battling it out over the honor, but Zhenya's not going to pass up on a non-punishable chance to throw stuff at him, 

They have to go four rounds. Flower gets close, his giant nose nearly touching Zhenya's, his eyes narrowed into thin slits. He claims it's so no one can cheat by looking down too soon, but Zhenya's pretty sure it's supposed to be an intimidation tactic. As if anyone could ever be intimidated by Flower outside of his gear. 

Zhenya wins with rock, which is particularly fitting.

"You should be nice to Sid," Flower says, nose upturned. "He's been _very_ nice to you lately."

"He hit me in head with stick three times at practice yesterday," Zhenya counters. They hadn't been hard hits, nothing malicious, but the last one had landed him on his ass. "My turn to hit in head."

"Geno, my friend, you never went through a pigtail pulling phase, did you?" Flower asks with a sigh. Zhenya doesn't really understand what he's getting at, but he shakes his head anyway. "I'll tell you on Christmas. If you let me throw the snow. _I deserve this_."

"You deserve nothing," Zhenya says. "I win, you lose. Same as always." 

"Fuck you," Flower says, flicking Zhenya's forehead. "I try to give you advice and you lie about me." Zhenya shoves him off the arm of the chair and laughs as Flower scrambles to catch his balance. 

When the glorious time of vengeance comes, half the team gathers behind the camera. The props person hands Zhenya a frozen bucket with pre-rolled snowballs. Sid, in the sweaty, gross elf outfit takes his mark and listens to the camera person's directions. 

"You guys are dicks," Sid says, but it's good natured. He's always been willing to be the butt of jokes if it's for the good of the team. "Enjoy it now, boys."

"We will," someone shouts. It takes the directors five minutes to calm them down. 

Someone lines Zhenya up where they want him and cue Sid. Sid smiles at Zhenya, his eyes bright and cheeks pink from standing under the lights. He's still grinning a little when the cameraman starts filming, can't seem to stop even when Zhenya pelts him in the face with one of the loosely packed snowballs. Zhenya holds his free hand over his mouth to keep his laughter in, but the sound leaks out anyway. 

He gets to do it two more times. Sid keeps laughing and the guys have to be shooed away from the set because they keep egging him on and getting caught on the microphones. When the director finally decides they've got what they need, Zhenya lets himself laugh as loud as he wants. 

"Laugh it up. You get the costume next," Sid says, pulling the wig off and shaking himself off. Water clings to his eyelashes and cheeks. He's beautiful. Even in the stupid wig and the ugly coat, he's beautiful. Zhenya gets stuck watching him, frozen in place until Sid tosses the wig at him. It's damp in the front, cold. Sid strips out of the green coat and the hideous leggings, down to his briefs and ratty t-shirt, and throws those at Zhenya as well. 

"You stink," Zhenya says, because it's expected. 

He's not really with it, doesn't really notice anyone around him as he kicks off his shorts and pulls the gross tights on over his legs. He stopped being self-conscious a long, long time ago. The wig is wet and he can feel the gathered sweat on the coat through his t-shirt. It reeks, but it's not as bad as his gear after a game. _Nothing_ is as bad as his gear after a game except for maybe Sid's ancient jock. That thing announces itself within twenty feet. 

He doesn't have to do much more than get stuffed into a too small desk and deliver one line. They apparently learned their lesson with the last Christmas video thing; put him in front of a camera, make him act, and he'll totally go blank every time. Still, at the end of it he's sweating from the giant spotlight pointed at his face and his eyes hurt. 

He strips out of the costume and hands it over to Horny. He hopes they burn it at the end of the day. No washing machine is going to make it clean ever again. Zhenya pulls his own pants back on and thinks longingly of a hot shower. He's seen and done everything he needs to see and do and has free rein to leave. 

"Good job, G," Sid says. He'll probably stay for the whole thing. 

"Not everyone get Emmy," Zhenya replies, just for the way the tips of Sid's ears go pink. The Emmy is in one of the trophy cases in Sid's den, hidden behind the bulky body of his Conn Smythe. Flower moves it to the front every time he visits. "Best actor on team."

"We'll see about that," Sid mumbles, already heading up to watch Horny through the little screen they've got set up. 

When Zhenya goes to collect his things from the chair he'd left them in, he finds three DVDs under his phone, their boxes held together on one side with black hockey tape. _Elf_ is sitting on top, Will Ferrell grinning on the front cover, but there are also two Soviet Era films underneath. Zhenya knows both of them by their covers, has fond memories of watching them with Denis and his parents on New Years, all four of them crowded on the small couch. They're old films, made long before he was even born, but classic. He doesn't know who left them there, but he has a sneaking suspicion. 

He'll watch _Sluzhebnyy Roman_ tonight with the glow of his tree as a companion. _Ryazanov Ironiya Sudby_ is for New Years. Maybe he'll invite Sid to watch it with him, see if the subtitles match up with the actual words, translate if they don't. It'll be good for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movies are _The Irony of Fate_ \- which is technically a mini-series played on New Years on Russian television a la A Christmas Story, and is about the the strange, accidental adventure of a man named Zhenya- and _Office Romance_ \- which is exactly what it sounds like.


	11. December 22, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost there, folks!

Zhenya is what terrible people like Tanger call _a mama's boy_. He loves his mother and respects her and does what she tells him because he is a good Russian boy, and Canadians are clearly emotionally ruined. He makes it a point to call her at least once a week, which is hard to do with the time change and his schedule, but he makes it work. The calls aren't always long, but he loves hearing her voice, even if she's scolding him. Especially, maybe, if she's scolding him. It makes him feel ten years old all over again, loved and worried for. 

"I saw you fight Chara," his mother says, her voice heavy with disapproval. "At least win if you're going to do something so stupid. Honestly, you've been doing this for over a decade. You should know better by now."

"I know, mama," Zhenya says. He's sacked out on the couch, body tired from the long haul of the game. 

Somehow, without anyone looking, the Blue Jackets had gotten good. The Penguins had won, but only by the skin of their teeth, and Zhenya's exhausted. He should go to bed, but he just keeps listening to his mother making lunch. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see the ceramic teapot on the stove and the wooden table that's seen more life than he has. 

"You know, but you don't learn," his mother says. Zhenya grins. He can hear his father mumbling in the background, arguing with the radio. Zhenya wishes they were closer, wishes he could convince them to stay with him in Pittsburgh, but he does actually know better than to pick a fight he'll definitely lose. 

His mother tells him about Denis and catches him up on town gossip. She pauses long enough to serve his father a plate, and Zhenya just listens to the sounds of them together. He should let her go about her day, but he's never claimed not to be selfish. 

"Sidney called me," his mother says when she picks up the phone again. Zhenya laughs. 

"How did you talk to him?" He asks. Sid had said he'd wanted to start learning Russian again, but Zhenya hasn't heard him speak a word of it since he'd given Zhenya the book. "What did you even talk about?"

"Denis helped translate. He wanted to ask me a question. And he was polite. You would think after ten years you'd have picked up some manners from him. Oh, I can only hope." His mother mutters a few more complaints about Zhenya's appalling manners, but it's an old joke that's more affectionate than annoyed. "Sleep, Zhenetchka. You played well tonight."

"Yes, mama," Zhenya says, because he's a good boy that listens to his mother. "Love you. Talk to you soon."

They play the Devils tomorrow. He really should go to sleep, but he's still wired from the game, restless. Something's missing but he can't quite put his finger on it. It sits on his shoulders as he pokes around in the kitchen, too tired to cook but too hungry to ignore it. He'd thought he'd stop being so hungry all the time when he'd stopped growing, but he was so very wrong. He's sitting down at the kitchen counter with a bowl of cereal, listening to _Den' Oprichnika_ when the doorbell rings. He pauses the book on his phone and goes to answer, checking through the peep hole suspiciously. 

It's not surprising at all that Sid's the one standing on the other side of the door. Sid, who is holding a tupperware full of what's unmistakably koliadki. He doesn't come in right away, even when Zhenya takes a step back to make room. The cold air leaks in through the door, snow blowing in over Zhenya's feet and turning theven hems of his sweats damp. He must make a sound because Sid's head jerks up and he pushes Zhenya out of the way and closes the door behind him. 

"What you doing, Sid?" Zhenya asks as he takes the tupperware. 

"I wanted to try something new," Sid says, but he won't meet Zhenya's eyes. 

"You call my mama for recipe," Zhenya says. He pops the lid open and the sweet smell of rye dough and cottage cheese is overwhelming. They're still warm, heating Zhenya's hands through the plastic container. The koliadki are a little misshapen, filled a little too high, but Zhenya knows they'll be good. Sid is always good at things he puts his mind to. "You make after game?" 

It hits him then, holding cookies meant to be handed out to carolers. He thinks of Estelle singing, her little voice counting off gift after gift, counting down the days to Christmas. He thinks of the things Sid's been leaving him with, all of them handed over without any fuss, without any chance of repercussions. 

"How many days?" Zhenya asks. He hasn't been paying enough attention. He hasn't been paying attention to the gifts, hasn't been paying attention to Sid. Not enough, anyway. Not in a way that matters. 

"Since the gifts?" Sid asks. He's staring Zhenya's chest, shoes still on. He's not planning on staying. Zhenya nods. "This is eleven. I didn't- I didn't plan on doing it this way. It just sort of happened at first, and I figured-" He shrugs, tucks his hands into his pockets. This is the shyest Zhenya has seen him since they were kids, quiet and withdrawn. He doesn't like it at all.

"Doing what, Sid?" Zhenya asks, because he needs to be sure he understands. Sid backs towards the door, "What you not plan to do?"

"Tomorrow," Sid says quietly. "I'll tell you for real tomorrow if you want me to." He leaves before Zhenya can find any words to respond. 

Zhenya sits on the couch, a little dizzy and head full. The doll Sid had given him is posed carefully on the entertainment center, her dress glittering in the light of the television. The giant penguin is still leaned against the tiger, Sid's hat sitting on top of its head at a jaunty angle. Sid had been so quiet about everything that Zhenya hadn't noticed at all, and he doesn't know what to do with any of it. 

He stays up too late eating cookies made by someone who maybe loves him with his mother's recipe. They're almost perfect.


	12. December 23, 2016

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We made it folks! Happy Holidays. I'm going to collapse in a writer's coma because over 15k words in under 15 days was a challenge I was not prepared for at all.

It's freezing outside, the cold nipping at Zhenya's fingers through his gloves and scarf, even Sid's hat not enough to keep his ears warm. The snow has been cleared from the parking lot, but huge piles of it sit around the perimeter like a gate, blackened and made slushy from dragging along the asphalt. It's the same as it always is this time of year, but Zhenya's never paid it much attention. 

He's stalling, shivering in his coat as he tries to figure out what to say. He'd spent half the night wondering about his last gift, wondering if Sid would just hand it over and carry on like nothing had happened, or if maybe he'd- Zhenya doesn't know. That's the whole problem. Sid's always been reliably predictable. It's boring sometimes, but he's steady as a rock, easy to figure out if you're willing to look hard enough. 

Eventually, he does go in. He has to skate, has to heat back up, has to face the thing with Sid head on. 

Sid's in the equipment room, sat by the cutter, stick between his thighs and glue stick in his hand. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, his lips pursed as he lines the cap up at the fresh cut end of his stick. Zhenya watches him go through the familiar motions, breath caught in his throat, and turns away before Sid can spot him. 

The nice thing about game days is that Zhenya doesn't have to think. Skate is light, more to keep them warm than to wear them out. Back to backs are brutal, no time for sore muscles to quiet down and for bruises to fade, and Sully won't take up time on plays they're already running well if it will wear them out too much. Sid mostly stays sequestered down at the ends of the rink with Flower and Muzz when the drills are on hold, but he looks normal. Happy the same way he always is on the ice. 

At the end of practice, Zhenya is prickly and tense, anticipation making him snappish. He strips out of his pads quickly, nearly smashing Horny's nose in when he swings the shoulder holster up too fast. The guys give him a wide berth. Sid doesn't even look over at him. Zhenya showers just as fast, scrubbing his sweat away with water that never seems hot enough. He's waiting for Sid to come to him, the same way he has been, but Sid hasn't made a move at all. 

Zhenya breaks easily enough. After he's dressed, he sits in Sid's stall, fiddling with the lid of one of the bee chapsticks. He waves off Rusty's offer of lunch, ignores Tanger chirping him about waiting for the wife. The jab hits a little close to home, and Zhenya tightens his fingers around the little plastic tube to keep his irritation in check. He's not a patient man. This is killing him. 

Sid doesn't look surprised to see him. He's shower damp, still mostly naked. Zhenya moves out of the way just enough for Sid to grab his clothes, turns his head while Sid pulls them on. If he lost his modesty early on, Sid maybe never had any to begin with. 

"Is twelfth day of presents," Zhenya says when Sid sits to pull on his socks. "Have to give now." Sid's hands pause, his fingers spread out over the white cotton, before he switches sides. 

"You still want it?" Sid asks, reaching for his sneakers. Zhenya stares at the dark, wet curl of hair at the nape of Sid's neck as Sid ties his laces and wonders if his answer ever could have been no. 

"Yes," he says. If he sounds a little strangled, Sid doesn't mention it. 

"It's at my house," Sid says. "I didn't know if you'd-" He shrugs. Zhenya wants to yell at him. Sid's never been nervous with him, never been anything but goofy and competitive and unerringly kind. 

Zhenya bites his tongue and follows Sid to the parking lot, then to his house, then into the living room. He's been following Sid in one way or another for years, always at his back, always just one step behind. He's always been proud to do it. Happy. This is just- this is an extension of that. 

"You tell me now?" Zhenya asks. He looks at the Christmas tree in the corner of the room, at the careful decoration Sid had done himself, the old ornaments and years' worth of stolen black and yellow candy canes hanging from the branches. The Grandfather Frost is still on the entertainment center, his delicate arms outstretched like he's welcoming Zhenya in. 

"Can I just…" Sid scrubs a hand over his face and sighs. "Fuck it." He steps into Zhenya's space, still radiating cold from outside, and curls his hand around the back of Zhenya's neck, dragging him down.

Sid's lips are cold, but they're soft as they drag across Zhenya's. Sid has to tilt his head back to reach properly, and his hand tightens and loosens against Zhenya's neck absently, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. It's a soft kiss, gentle in a way that makes Zhenya's chest ache a little. Zhenya curls his hands around Sid's hips and pulls him closer. It's strange and wonderful. He knows Sid so well, but this is- this is Sid pressed tight against him, this is Sid catching Zhenya's lower lip between his teeth and biting down just enough to sting. Zhenya doesn't think he'll ever understand Sid completely, will never really get how his mind works or ever really _know_ him in the way he knows himself, but he wants to try. God, he wants to try.

"I really did get you another present," Sid says against Zhenya's jaw. When he pulls back, his lips are shiny, wet. He absently licks his lower lip, distracting and entirely unnecessary. It takes Zhenya a moment to understand what he means. 

"Give," Zhenya says. He tightens his hands around Sid's hips, feeling the soft give of skin and muscle. Sid laughs and wiggles free. 

"I should have guessed," Sid says. He hesitates before rushing forward to kiss Zhenya again, there and then gone, turning away to climb the stairs before Zhenya can do anything about it. Zhenya follows after him like he always does. Like he probably always will. 

When they reach the master bedroom, Sid makes a beeline towards his dresser. Zhenya sits on the edge of the bed, smoothing his hands over the soft comforter. If he plays his cards right, he might get to nap here, Sid pressed warm and solid against him. He wants that more than whatever thing Sid's grabbing out of the drawer. He still takes the box Sid hands him, though. He's curious, and Sid already went through the effort of getting something. It would be a waste to ignore it. 

"I-" Sid shrugs. "I'm not really good at buying gifts, but I think you'll like it?" 

Zhenya opens the box. Inside, laying against the soft velvet lining, is a watch. The face is black, bright yellow arms ticking away quietly. It's not overly flashy, but when he holds it up, a small row of diamonds glitter around the face. The watch is heavy, the thick band of it a thick, buttery leather that slides nicely over Zhenya's skin. Zhenya turns the watch over and rubs his thumb over the delicate engraving of the Cup on the back. Sid- reliably predictable in all the best ways. 

"Beautiful," Zhenya says. He means the watch, but the way Sid lights up is just- it's beautiful. It's breathtaking. 

"Yeah?" Sid asks. Zhenya slips his old watch off easily, tucking it into the box, and holds his arm out for Sid to strap on the new one. The leather makes his skin look paler and it's heavier than he's used to, but he'll get used to it fast. Sid runs a finger over the place where the strap meets Zhenya's skin. "Good. That's- good."

"Best," Zhenya agrees. He takes the chance presented to him and grabs Sid around the waist, hauling him down onto the bed fast enough that Sid can't fight back. He nearly gets an elbow to the eye for his trouble, but it's worth it for the startled sound Sid makes when he hits the mattress. "Pretty presents. Bad reflex."

"Fuck you, bad reflex," Sid says, and then it's on. 

Sid doesn't hold back when he wrestles, and Zhenya doesn't either. The bed frame squeaks underneath them, the headboard smacking into the wall, and Zhenya's briefs are doing their best to climb straight up into his ass, but Sid's laughing that stupid screech of his and he's pulling out the same dirty tricks that Taylor uses. Everything doesn't seem so heavy like this. It's just him and Sid, goofing off and being together because it's fun. Because they understood other perfectly, even from the start. Because Zhenya had come to America as a frightened, sad boy and Sid had welcomed him with open arms and no judgement. 

Zhenya's had years and years to learn about the exact right spot on Sid's ribs that makes him jackknife away, breathless with laughter, to learn about the shitty chirping Sid tries to get out anyway. This feels like a natural progression. They were always going to end up here. They just needed to wait for the right time. 

Sid manages to plant his feet against the mattress, and it's all over from there. He flips them over, sitting his giant ass down on Zhenya's stomach. It knocks what little breath he's got left out of him, and Zhenya has to concede to defeat. Sid throws his arms up in victory. He's a little sweaty, his hair curling and his face pink, and it almost hurts to look at him. Zhenya does it anyway. 

"Yes, yes," Zhenya wheezes out. "You fattest hockey player. Very good for you." Sid snorts and rolls off to the side. His thigh is still over Zhenya's, heavy weight keeping him pinned. Zhenya rubs a palm over Sid's exposed knee, the strap of his shiny new watch dragging over Sid's skin. "Nap?" 

"Yeah," Sid says. 

He climbs over Zhenya to get to the proper side of the bed and sets the alarm on his phone. They both pull their shirts off, but leave their shorts on. Zhenya turns onto his side and grins when Sid scoots up behind him, tucking their knees together. Sid lays one arm over Zhenya's stomach, hiding fingertips resting on the watch's shiny face. Every breath he takes brings him just a little closer. 

"Okay?" Sid asks softly. Zhenya closes his eyes and hums. He's tired and warm and happy. It isn't going to take him long to fall asleep.

"Best present," Zhenya says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then Tanger and Flower were very upset that Sid and Geno couldn't just wait a little longer, and Phil went home with all the bet money, because Phil has insight and common sense. And can count to twelve, which I could not because this was originally supposed to end on Christmas day. Whoops. Thank you so much to everyone that's stuck around for this silly story and left comments. You guys made this a fun and exciting journey. <3 
> 
> If you want, come join me over at my [tumblr](http://notyourlovesong.tumblr.com).


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